


Heal

by peterparkerpanic



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Addiction, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir Gets a Hug, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir Identity Reveal, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir Needs a Hug, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir Whump, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Badass Chloé Bourgeois, Chloé Bourgeois Redemption, Chloé-centric fic, Discussions of STD's, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending, Hurt Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Protective Chloé Bourgeois, Rehabilitation, STD's, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sex Addiction, TW: Drugs, TW: addiction, major angst, tw: alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24114061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterparkerpanic/pseuds/peterparkerpanic
Summary: “You’re not-“ Chloe sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose, between her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “You aren’t dying, Adrien. But you sure as hell are killing yourself.”Adrien finished doing up his shirt and rubbed a finger under his nose, sniffling a bit. He moved to the bathroom, and Chloe followed – watching as Adrien grabbed some tissue and blew his nose a few times.Once he finished, he turned to her, holding out his arms. “How do I look?” He asked.“Like shit,” she responded honestly. “Now come on. We’re going to an STI clinic, so you can get tested, and then we’re going shopping.”Gabriel Agreste’s fall from grace had not been, for lack of a better word, graceful. He’d been exposed, and overnight he was ruined – imprisoned with many life sentences to his name. Adrien, it seemed, had been broken into a million little glass shards by the process.And Chloe Bourgeois was all that was left to pick up the pieces.Trigger warning: discussions of addictions to: sex, drugs, alcohol and cigarettes. Mentions of all and STD's, and the physical toll they have on the body.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Chloé Bourgeois, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, past Chloé Bourgeois/Sabrina Raincomprix
Comments: 13
Kudos: 171





	Heal

**Author's Note:**

> This one's heavy, folks.
> 
> I've been planning it for a while - a deep look into Chloe, and her relationship with Adrien, and it became this. Please read the trigger warnings before you start, and stay safe.

The rancid smell of the hotel room reached out into the hallways like an iron fist, and Chloe winced, pulling her shirt up to her nose to try and shield herself. She knocked sharply, three times, against the wooden door.

“Adrien?” She called, sound muffled by her shirt. “Adrien! Are you awake?”

No response. Chloe sighed, fingers reaching into her jean pocket to grab the master room key, slotting it into the door and watching as it flashed green. She sucked in a readying breath, and opened the door.

The room smelt worse than the corridor. The haze was enough to make Chloe’s eyes water – and part of her wished she’d worm more perfume this morning, even though she knew it wouldn’t help her. The large room was in disarray; the pillows strewn, some wet with alcohol, others wet with… she didn’t want to know what.

Her eyes followed the pillows to the ransacked food cart, the room service dinner half eaten, and half strewn to the rich carpets below. It was covered in empty bottles – five, at least, of wine – and many of beer.

And behind it, on the main desk, there were remnants of a familiar white powder, and several small plastic bags.

Her head turned to the bedroom section of the room. Although it was bright, and sunny outside, the thick curtains were drawn completely shut, shielding the bed’s occupants from the sun. Chloe marched over, almost ripping the curtains off their hinges to open them wide.

Several groans filled the pungent air as the light hit the bed, and there was movements from underneath the covers. Chloe could see three sets of legs that were not Adrien Agreste’s.

“Come on, girls,” she said through the shirt, reaching forwards to open a window, whilst she was at the curtains – and dropping her top to take a clean breath of air in. “It’s almost three in the afternoon. Get your clothes, and get out.”

Two of the girls – the semi-conscious ones – got up, hastily trying to cover themselves as they picked the thin pieces of clothing off of the floor, shimmying on expensive dresses and lingerie sets. So she was wrong, then. After the two girls got up, there were _still_ three sets of legs in the bed.

She moved forwards, yanking the sheet off of the bed – and was met with more of an eyesight that she wanted to see – especially of her best friend. “Chlo,” Adrien groaned, rolling onto his front and nestling into the pillow – giving Chloe a view of his behind that most girls would die for. “Get _out.”_

“No,” she said, grabbing one of the girl’s ankles and shaking softly. “Get up, Adrien. It’s three in the afternoon.”

The other two girls seemed to be waking up slowly – faces still holding just about as much eye makeup as the night before, but the rest (especially the lipstick) was a smudged mess. Like the last two, they hurried to get dressed – although one stopped to look in the mirror, brushing through her sex-mussed hair. Chloe set her a sharp glare; and she left.

“Seriously, Adrien?” Chloe moved to sit on the bed – before pausing herself, and deciding to perch on the windowsill. “Four girls?”

Adrien groaned again, reaching blindly for the comforter. “No,” Chloe said sternly. “Stand up. Have some water, or something. Wake up – or you’ll fuck up your sleeping schedule even more.”

Another unintelligible sound, and Chloe moved to the hotel’s bathroom. It was cleaner than she’d expected; usually, he’d wrecked every part of the room. But the floor was sopping, and so were half the towels. She tried to avoid the water, reaching for a glass and filling it to the brim with cool, tap water.

She walked back into the hotel room, thrusting the glass at Adrien. “I swear to god,” she begun, “if you do not get up and drink this water, I will pour it all over you. The bed is wet already, Adrien. Don’t make me.”

His head flipped on the pillow, and through a squint, he looked at her. She held the glass out to him.

He took it, rolling over and sitting up, slowly. Chloe had the decency to avert her eyes – although it was something she’d seen many times before. She spotted his trousers in a heap at the side of the room – chucking at them.

“I bet you have a shitty headache, huh.” She commented, as he finished the glass, putting it on the bedside table, and beginning to shuffle into his pants. “Let’s go buy some ibuprofen, or something.”

“Let me sleep, Chlo.” He said, voice husky with the alcohol and the sleep. “I’m tired.”

“Yeah, well so am I,” she said. “Of your shit. Four women?”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he said, getting up and stretching his arms above his head, which popped a few bones in his back. “I invited two, but they came, and they said they’d bring friends.”

“Bullshit,” Chloe muttered as Adrien let out a yawn, doing the buckle on his trousers. “I saw the stuff on the table, Adrien. I thought we said no hard drugs.”

“Cocaine isn’t a hard drug,” he said.

“Are you fucking _kidding me?”_ She asked as he grabbed his wrinkled shirt, putting it on and beginning to do up the buttons. “Cocaine is a hard drug. _Alcohol_ is a hard drug. My god, can’t you just get addicted to weed, or something?”

Adrien chuckled. “What, you want me to pick up smoking?”

“If it keeps you away from all of this? Yeah, sure.”

Adrien shrugged. “What’s the point? I’m dying, anyway.”

“You’re not-“ Chloe sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose, between her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “You aren’t dying, Adrien. But you sure as hell are killing yourself.”

Adrien finished doing up his shirt and rubbed a finger under his nose, sniffling a bit. He moved to the bathroom, and Chloe followed – watching as Adrien grabbed some tissue and blew his nose a few times.

Once he finished, he turned to her, holding out his arms. “How do I look?” He asked.

“Like shit,” she responded honestly. “Now come on. We’re going to an STI clinic, so you can get tested, and then we’re going shopping.”

* * *

Gabriel Agreste’s fall from grace had not been, for lack of a better word, graceful. He’d been exposed, and overnight he was ruined – imprisoned with many life sentences to his name. Adrien, it seemed, had been broken into a million little glass shards by the process.

And Chloe Bourgeois was all that was left to pick up the pieces.

Since the fall, she’d been spending almost all of her time with Adrien (which was perfectly acceptable; socialites hung out, big deal.) She’d been the one bringing him water and painkillers for his headaches, food for when his stomach was grumbling but he couldn’t get out of bed, urging him to take showers, because it had bee two, three, four days – and she needed to wash his sheets.

He ‘sprung back’ about as quickly as she’d expected him too – within a month, the grieving was seemingly over, and after he applied enough concealer under his eyes, Adrien Agreste was a businessman; ready to face the public, and deal with whatever the hell his father had left for him. Chloe had stuck by him then, too – sitting through the hours upon hours of meetings discussing assets, money, business.

The board had appointed someone else as a temporary CEO. Adrien had been trained to take that position all his life, and the board had cast him aside – paid him off, almost. Except he had all the money in the world. Adrien, it seemed, hadn’t been very upset with the decision. Chloe knew that he never really wanted to be a businessman, or a fashion designer – but she had expected a reaction. A fight, maybe. A protest.

That night, she’d dragged him out. To celebrate his freedom, she’d said. He didn’t want to be a fashion mogul – and she didn’t really want him to be one, either. Both their parents were severely messed up, and Chloe found herself promising that the two of them would never end up like that.

So they’d dressed up – Adrien in a suit that made him look as dashingly stunning as before the fall, and Chloe in a red, Gabriel dress – to show her solidarity with Adrien, as she’d told the reporters on the way in. They’d been having a good time for a while, too; a few glasses of champagne, light talks with people as high as they were on the food chain.

And then she’d blinked, and suddenly Adrien Agreste, son of Hawkmoth, was royally drunk, and stumbling all over everybody on the dance floor. Chloe had ran to him, placing one of his arms over her shoulder and shushing him as she wished everybody goodnight, taking him home.

She’d taken him back to the mansion; unlocked the door, and gotten him out of his suit and into his pyjamas. She was about to leave, too – when he grabbed her wrist.

“Please don’t leave,” he said, eyes filling with earnest tears; the first real emotion she’d seen from him since the fall. “I hate it here. I’m alone. I can’t be in this house. Please don’t leave.”

So she’d sat, awkwardly, his hand still on her wrist – and a second later, she’d pulled his head onto her lap, and began stroking his hair.

And right there, Adrien had burst into tears. From then on, he’d had a permanent residence at Le Grand Paris.

* * *

“I’ve been looking at rehabs,” Chloe mentioned casually as they walked through the mall. In her arms, there was a brand-new Louis Vutton handbag that she’d transfer all her essentials into later. Adrien, on the other hand, was wearing a pair of thick, ugly glasses with the words, ‘I LOVE PARIS’ on the sides that he’d bought from the first person he saw.

“Why?” Adrien asked. The scent of baked goods wafted from some stall or other. Adrien paused, and looked around. Chloe did not.

“For you,” she said. “All pricey, but all very well reviewed.” She noticed that he’d stopped walking. “You want churros?”

He shrugged. “Not hungry.”

They continued walking, Chloe’s eyes scanning the shop windows. Lots of decent things – but if she really wanted to go shopping, she’d have invited Sabrina. Right now, she needed to talk to Adrien – and if a serious conversation was out of the question, she’d coax him into talking.

“You want me to go to rehab?” Adrien asked. Chloe caught sight of a small coffee shop that she liked – they did the _best_ vanilla bean latte’s – and she made a beeline for it.

“I want you to _think_ about going to rehab, Adrien,” she said as they entered the shop, joining the queue. “But yeah, I think it’d be good for you.”

Adrien frowned. “But the tabloids…”

“Are spewing bullshit, anyway.” Chloe interrupted. “Who cares what they say? Going – getting help, that’s admirable. And nobody believes the shit in those trashy tabloids, anyway.”

Adrien’s lips downturned, and although the sunglasses blocked it, Chloe was sure the crease in between his eyebrows was back, prominent as ever. “I don’t need a rehab, Chlo.”

“Really.” The word came out slightly harsher than she meant it to, as they moved up one space in the line. “So you’re not an alcoholic?”

Adrien swallowed. “No.”

“You aren’t an addict, either, then?”

“I’ve only done coke a couple of times.”

“And cocaine is very addictive,” she said.

“Chlo,” his voice turned stern – as if he were trying to reason with her. “I’m fine. I don’t need help.”

Chloe scanned him for a second – other than the cheap sunglasses, he was wearing a normal black top and a pair of ratty _Gabriel_ sweatpants. “Take off your sunglasses.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” the line moved up again. They were one spot away from ordering.

He removed his sunglasses obediently, eyes squinting slightly at the light. Chloe’s frown, which she’d been trying to fend off for his sake, came back full-force, off-setting the pity in her heart. His skin was pallid, and his hair was slightly greasy, and his sunken-in eyes had just lost their _shine._

“Next, please,” the barista said.

“One vanilla bean latte, please,” Chloe turned to Adrien. “You want anything?”

He shook his head, putting the sunglasses back on. She turned back to the barista, flashing her credit card, and moving down the counter to wait for her drink.

“Argue with me all you want,” she said to Adrien, after a moment. “But you need help, Adrien. I can’t force you into it – I’m not your legal guardian – but I am your best friend.”

Adrien nodded. “I’ll think about it,” he said in a voice far too quiet and meek for a 24-year-old boy.

Chloe wanted her heart to swell up with hope; but she knew that statement was just another way he was brushing her off.

* * *

Almost a year ago to the day, Hawkmoth had been revealed. Gabriel Agreste had gone to prison, along with Nathalie, for being his accomplice. Overnight, it seemed, Paris had been transformed – people rejoiced, there were celebrations in the streets, and news broadcasters all over the world shared the ‘good news.’

Ladybug and Chat Noir disappeared, too. It wasn’t apparent at first – except, two days into the week-long declared holiday, and the public’s demands to see and celebrate the heroes hadn’t been met – something was wrong. No goodbyes, no well-wishes to the city they’d devoted half their lives to?

At the time, it seemed, everybody Chloe knew disbanded, too. Sabrina moved an hour away – just outside of Paris – because her father had been recognised as a public hero, and offered a promotion – and she was to follow in his footsteps. Nino and Alya moved in together – except they relocated to Nice, where Alya could work for the biggest French newspaper there was.

Marinette had moved to London to pursue fashion with work experience under two famous fashion designers. Luka, although not knowingly, had followed her, to try and further his music career. Last Chloe heard; they were roommates.

All of that wasn’t such a _bad_ thing, it was just that they all had a friend – _Adrien –_ who was grieving so intensely over his father, his mother, and the entire life that had been going on right under his nose, that he hadn’t noticed. And whilst he’d been falling, fast, Chloe was the only person who could help. The only one _left._

The tabloids called him horrible names for his grief – shunning him, as well as _Gabriel_ as a whole. People called him a conspirator in the plot, even though the trial had lasted almost a month, and it was deemed that Adrien was completely innocent.

At the point Chloe found out about the true burden Adrien was carrying, he’d already had a bit of an alcohol problem. It wasn’t an addiction, per se – rather a crutch he used. For a while after the court proceedings, Adrien didn’t leave the hotel much. There wasn’t really much to do – he went to nightclubs, sometimes, and took home girls who pretended they didn’t recognise him, and allowed him, too, to forget. He woke up late, spent the day drinking, and the night drinking more, and nursed his hangover until he woke up and did it all over again.

This was also Chloe’s first intervention. Her first realization that _no, this was not just a_ phase _Adrien was going through in his grief._ It was serious – and it was a problem. A problem she needed to try to fix.

She’d arrived when he was half a bottle of vodka into some American comedy movie that wasn’t making him laugh, bundled in a slightly dirty blanket. Adrien’s room barely got room service because he never left it when the staff were on duty – so he was often left to sit in his own filth. Chloe hadn’t really noticed it before, though. But by the greasiness of his hair and the assortment of bottles on the floor around him, this wasn’t the first time it had happened.

She’d meant to intervene, to talk with him, but instead found herself pulling him up and running him a bath. It had been easy to get him to cooperate, with his half-conscious state, so she’d shampooed his hair and handed him the loofah, deeming the soapy water enough of a wash, for now. She’d given him a back massage, and lit some incense Sabrina had sent in the mail – the girl had been on-again-off-again collecting it, because it calmed her rampant anxiety, and whenever she found a good blend, she’d send it to Chloe. By the end of it, Adrien could barely stand for her to towel-dry him and get him in some fresh clothes.

When they got out, an hour later, the sheets had been changed, the bottles and the blanket were gone, and the staff had sprayed something clean everywhere, opening the windows. Good. Chloe sat Adrien on the bed, and had gently kept hold of one of his hands as she sat opposite him, watching him. “We need to talk,” she said, voice soft from the hour she’d spent whispering reassurances as he leant into her touch.

“Can’t,” he mumbled. “M’tired.”

Chloe chuckled softly. “Well, you can stay awake for this, and then you can go to sleep. Okay?”

He nodded, half-lidded eyes focussing on her.

“Adrien, I…” she faltered at that, wanting to fidget with his fingers, entwined with hers. She’d had the whole speech planned out, in her head – but it had slowly seeped out of her, and now she was grossly underprepared. “I think you need to stop drinking.”

His eyebrows drew together in confusion that would’ve looked a lot like anger if he wasn’t only semi-conscious. “I’m not drinking,” he said.

She sighed. “No, Adrien. I think you have a problem. And I think you’re dealing with your grief in the only way you know how. So… I think we should get you a therapist.”

He physically recoiled at that, fingers slipping out of hers. “A therapist?”

“You’re grieving, Adrien,” she emphasized. “And a therapist might help…”

“I don’t want a therapist.” He said, clearing his throat. His spine straightened slightly, and his eyes lost some of the alcohol-induced haze they’d previously had. “I don’t need a therapist.”

“You do, Adrien.” She reached for his hand again. He drew it back. “You’re sad, and I can’t fix it – if only you would get some _help…”_

“But I’ve got you,” he said with a weak smile that was even less convincing to her than it was to him.

“But you don’t talk to me either,” she said. “You just… drink, and party, and expect me to make it all better. We need to talk about your feelings.”

“Talk about my feelings?” He chuckled.

“Adrien, I’m being serious. If you won’t talk to a therapist, at least talk to me. How do you feel about your father?”

“Like shit, Chloe!” The words were unexpectedly sharp, despite them being slightly slurred. “Is that what you want to know?”

She nodded. “Go on.”

Adrien shrugged his shoulders exaggeratedly. “My dad and his assistant were supervillains, and they’re in prison. Everybody hates me. Paris hates me. Nino hates me. Luka hates me. Marinette hates me.”

“Hey,” she said softly, noticing the change in his voice. Adrien’s voice began to get thick with an emotion she hadn’t even seen coming. “I don’t hate you.”

He accepted her embrace, but didn’t seem to hear her words. “Ladybug hates me, Chlo,” he said into her shoulder.

“What? Why would Ladybug hate you?”

“Because-“ he sniffed sharply. “After we fought Hawkmoth, I detransformed, and she saw that I was his _son,_ and she… she ran away.”

“You…” Chloe’s mind was working a mile a minute, trying to piece the information together. Hawkmoth. Detransform. Ladybug. “You’re Chat Noir?”

“I was,” the tears began dripping onto Chloe’s cardigan, and she pulled him impossibly closer. “But she left, and I don’t even know who she _is –_ but she knows me, and she never once came to see me again. Ladybug _hates_ me.”

“No,” Chloe whispered, stroking Adrien’s wet hair as his words gave way to body-wracking sobs. “Nobody could hate you, Adrien. Nobody.”

She fell into silence as he let out his emotions, brushing his hair and rubbing his back in the only way she knew how to offer comfort. Eventually, his breathing evened out, and the sobs stopped. She pulled back the new sheets and placed him into bed, drying his cheeks.

Although she hadn’t gotten exactly what she wanted out of the conversation, he hadn’t gone out that night – and she counted it as a win.

* * *

Chloe had recently been trying to go on dates. She’d been in several relationships – her longest being with Sabrina, who broke it off when she moved away, but agreed that they should stay friends. Except, with every passing day, it became harder and harder to explain to a partner why she couldn’t leave her phone behind, or silence it on a date, or why sometimes she had to disappear after receiving a text message, and she wouldn’t explain why. Most partners called her self-obsessed and crazy, others called her a cheater. She didn’t care.

She couldn’t tell them what was really happening – why she was being pulled away. With every new try she’d taken, she’d thought she could trust the person she was dating; until they walked out on her with an angry slap, or words so unexpectedly venomous that she was left thinking about for days. They’d let her in, and she’d thought she could trust them – but eventually they all got fed up, and she knew she was right in not telling them. If she’d told them, and they’d had an ugly break up, that person could go to the press in a heartbeat, and the tabloids were enough.

If ever Adrien saw his face on the news, he broke down. Because he was barely in the public eye, save for his drunken misconduct almost every day of the week, Chloe could cater to not allowing him to watch the news when _Gabriel_ came up as a topic of discussion, or know when not to have a newspaper delivered to the hotel room when the new CEO donned the headlines.

And so she’d found herself resigned to love, in a way. She wanted it, sure – craved it like she always had. Thoughts of somebody to love was a foothold in her mind, that she returned to every time things got tough. It was what kept her going to these shitty things – blind dates, or Tinder meet-ups, or gay bars, where she hoped to find someone also looking for something more than a shitty hook-up.

But it never worked out. And so, in her mind, she’d resigned herself to putting Adrien first. It was a little like having a child, she imagined. A reckless, depressed child. He came first. Her life came second.

And she just had to deal with it.

* * *

She didn’t know where he got the cigarettes from the first time. He never left the hotel room other than to visit clubs, and ‘elite’ parties, where he’d get drunk and high off his ass and sleep it off until the next one. But one day he wasn’t smoking, and the next day he was, like it was the most natural thing, and it wasn’t slowly turning his lungs to tar.

“Stop,” she’d say, every time she caught him with one. “It’ll kill you.”

He’d let her grab it, and snuff it out, without protest. But instead of speaking up, he’d just shrug.

One day, after he’d lit another the moment she snatched it off him, she asked him if he wanted to die.

“Sometimes,” he’d responded.

She thought about that time a lot.

* * *

“Chlamydia?” Chloe asked, holding the test results in one hand. “Do you seriously think this is fine now?”

Adrien shrugged, eyes squinting through the sunglasses he wore. “It’s fine, Chlo,” he said. “I’ll take the pills, and I’ll be fine.”

“That’s not the point!” She yelled, putting the paper down. “How long have you had it? How many people have you passed it to? How many people have _they_ passed it to? How long until they realize? What if they-“

“Chloe,” Adrien stood from the sofa, approaching her with his hands out. “I’ll be fine.”

She shook her head. “Do you even know those girl’s names, Adrien? Do you have ways to contact them? Let them know they may have an STD?”

He stopped walking. “I know a couple,” he said. “I can ask around – I’m sure somebody can-“

“That isn’t the point,” Chloe groaned. “You couldn’t stop and ask if they were clean? I’ve had no problem with the sex, Adrien – but it’s a conversation that only takes a minute.”

Adrien sunk into the sofa again, drawing a knee up to his chest in a way that made him look small, and vulnerable. Chloe wanted to reach out and comfort him – watch a movie, stroke his hair until he fell into a peaceful sleep. “It ruins the mood,” he explained.

“No, it doesn’t.”

Adrien frowned. “How would you know?”

“Adrien, if the person doesn’t want to have sex with you because you ask them if they’re free of STI’s, you should not be sleeping with them. It never ruins the mood – it just makes sex safe. What if that person has HIV, huh? And you get it too. You might… I can’t lose you, Adrien. Not like that.”

Adrien seemed to deflate further, and Chloe felt her own chest caving in at the phantom grief. At the end of the day, the broken boy that sat in front of her was her best friend – with her mother always on some business trip, her father increasingly busy with politics, and all her friends pursuing their own lives, she relied on Adrien almost as much as he relied on her. She’d thought she was clingy before, but the bond between them now was unnatural and unbreakable.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just-“

“I know,” she said softly, moving to sit besides him. He was malleable, allowing her to pull him into a hug. She tried to ignore how his breaths were shallow, or his arms felt like rods. “Hey; how about I run you a bath, and then you can get some sleep?”

He nodded into her chest, and she detached herself to go to the bathroom. As the water was heating, she stripped his bedsheets, replacing them with one of the many sets she’d ordered the maid staff kept in his room, for convenience. She wanted to burn the old sheets – but settled for throwing them on an old food cart and scrubbing her hands. Then the bath was run, and Adrien got in, and Chloe was left for a moment to herself.

When he came out, a little under an hour had passed, and the colour had somewhat returned to his cheeks, probably due to the steam coming off the water. He’d noticed the clean sheets, mumbling a thanks, and Chloe had helped him get into bed, stroking his hair softly as his eyes drifted shut.

“Chlo?” He called as she was about to leave. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop all the sex, I promise.”

She wanted to tell him he didn’t have to – but instead, the only words she could manage was a teary, “thank you,” before she left him to sleep.

* * *

Two weeks later, Chloe entered Adrien’s room to see a girl on the other side of his bed. She knew – she _knew_ – she should have expected him to break his promise.

It didn’t mean it hurt any less.

* * *

“What the hell is this?” Chloe asked. It was another of Adrien’s breakdowns – this time with sufficiently less alcohol in his system – and she’d agreed to wash his hair for him. Except now he was in the bath, and he’d raised an arm to get her to stop, and she’d noticed the bruises up his arm.

He’d let it drop, splashing the water over the edge of the tub. “Nothing, Chlo. Just a bruise.”

“Really?” She took her hands out of his hair, wiping the excess shampoo on her jeans. “Show me. Give me your arm.”

He shook his head. “Adrien,” she said again. “Show me your arm.”

He sat for a second, and an anger Chloe had felt before but never this strongly pushed through her. She reached into the tub, grabbing his wrist, and pulling it out to where she would see it.

Needle marks. Bruises. The skin was pale enough to see he’d injected straight into the vein.

“Heroin, Adrien?” She asked. “I thought we said no hard drugs.”

“I…” he faltered at that. “I’m sorry, Chloe.”

The anger was morphing into the sort of frustration that ate away at her energy and formed tears in her eyes. “Sorry doesn’t cut it this time, Adrien.” Her voice was cold. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I meant to only try it once – but then I couldn’t sleep, and, it made me… feel.”

“Made you feel what? High?”

“It made me feel _something.”_

Chloe released his wrist, shaking her head. “You’re killing yourself. You don’t see it, but I do – you’re killing yourself.”

“No, I-“

“Stop.” Chloe straightened her legs so she was standing over him, and placed a hand over her face, swallowing back tears. “You know what else you don’t see? You’re killing me, too. Every drug you take – every sip of alcohol, every cigarette – I deal with it. I don’t care. I love you like family; you’re the closest thing I have to family. But if you’re going to kill yourself on all of this shit, then I can’t be here to watch it.” She shook her head, letting her hand drop to her side. “I can’t. I’m leaving.”

“No – Chloe, _wait-“_

The tears blurred her vision, but Chloe was deadest on leaving that hotel room. The words… it felt like they’d been coming for a long time, but she couldn’t help the overwhelming guilt that came with them. She didn’t want to leave him – to lose him – but every moment she spent with him felt like she was losing herself.

She was vaguely aware that Adrien had grabbed a robe and was following her through the suite, his voice hoarse with sobbed apologies, pleas for her. But she walked straight out of the room, slamming his door behind her, and entering the elevator.

The two other people that shared the lift down didn’t mention the breakdown she’d started having. They didn’t question why, as her chest heaved with sobs, she wiped away her tears and continued walking.

She walked until her feet ached, and Adrien was far, far behind her. And then she’d started crying.

* * *

Three weeks later, almost to the day, Chloe ventured outside. She’d been staying at an inn on the outskirts of Paris, surviving on their breakfast foods, and whatever else she could buy for lunch and dinner. She traded out two outfits, washing them in the sink each day. Anything to avoid going back to the hotel.

The air seemed lighter out here. Although she felt heavy with guilt, with each breath of fresh air, it eased the ache in her temples and in her spine. With every shitty meal, and lukewarm shower, she felt better.

So she’d decided she’d venture further than the local high street, dipping into coffee shops and clothing stores, and browsing. She had the entire day to herself – no responsibilities, nothing to worry about other than her own crushing thoughts.

Until she’d seen the daily newspaper headline.

_Adrien Agreste Checks Himself into Rehab Facility; Teen Star Finally Trying to Heal?_

She’d left her phone at the hotel weeks ago – back in her room. He’d probably texted her about his plan.

Was it true? Had he finally listened to her advice?

Suddenly, she ached to see him. To comfort him. To tell him how proud she was that he’d taken that step. That he wanted to heal.

But he was in rehab – if his healing was prompted without her in his life, it needed to continue without her presence. Her absence motivated him.

And so, she spent one last night in the light air of Paris’s outskirts before she returned home. Maybe she’d buy a house out there, later in life. Move in with her love.

* * *

Eight months later, Chloe got a text from Adrien. It was simple. Not long, not fancy – not an apology.

An invitation to a family & friends session at the rehab facility he was at.

She hadn’t really known what to expect when she accepted, other than seeing Adrien. The session was in a week, and she’d have to drive out to the rehab – it was two or so hours out of Paris.

She certainly didn’t expect Adrien, looking the way he did, when he greeted her. His skin had regained its colour – it wasn’t thin, or unnaturally pale. His eyes seemed brighter, and wider, and less sunken-in. His hair was richer in colour, and he stood straighter. The flush on his cheeks was healthy, and not alcohol induced.

She’d taken one look at him and wanted to cry. He looked like he might cry, too, as he wrapped her up in a hug, murmuring a, “hey, Chlo,” as she squeezed his ribs tight enough that she probably could’ve burst one of his lungs.

The hug lasted longer than either expected, but it was welcomed. When they finally pulled back, Chloe was crying. “Hey,” she said. “Long time no see.”

Adrien chuckled, wiping a tear himself and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go,” he said, leading her inside. “It’s about to start.”

The meeting was set up like a support group, with chairs in a circle and people sharing, one-by-one. This was a centre mainly for drug addictions, and Chloe witnessed heart-wrenching stories of how drugs had torn families apart, and people had lost their friends to overdoses, or relationships were so estranged it was taking years to rebuild them.

And then Adrien had his turn to share. He’d talked about all his addictions – sex, alcohol, nicotine, a variety of drugs – and how it had been eating away at him, until she’d spurred him on. He spoke of how she was like ‘his guardian angel’, and without her he’d probably be dead. He’d spoken about how the fear gripped him so intensely when he first left that he could do nothing but check himself into rehab – and how every day was a struggle, but he was willing to do it, for her.

She didn’t know when she’d started crying, only that by the end, their fingers were laced so tightly that her knuckles were white. He’d finished his story, and looked to her.

 _‘I love you,’_ she mouthed.

 _‘I love you too’,_ he mouthed back.

And she’d squeezed his hand once more for good luck, and allowed hope to fill her up to the brim once again.

* * *

After Adrien got out, time had passed quicker than Chloe was used to. Marinette had moved back to France at some point during the period, and she’d rekindled her relationship with Adrien so fast, Chloe felt like she’d blinked and suddenly the two were moving in together. A small – a minute – part of her felt betrayed; she’d dealt with the worst, and Marinette felt like she could come at the start of the good and steal her best friend away from her? But she’d pushed that aside in favour of her happiness for him.

Because he seemed happy. He hadn’t shared every detail of his relationship with Marinette to her, but he’d told her enough for her to know that he was absolutely smitten, and planned on (eventually) proposing. He’d asked her to be his best man. If it made Adrien happy, she’d dress in a suit, wear a beard, and dance at his wedding.

She still dreamt of love – of the house she wanted to have in the fresh air out of Paris, of the domestic moments together. Freshly 25, she tried not to let the lack of it bring her down – she was still _young,_ damn it. So she kept an open mind, and an open heart, and adopted a cat.

She watched the lives of the people around her, watched them develop, and grow. She got herself enrolled in a law course, and bought herself an apartment, because the hotel housed too many memories for her.

She went to Adrien’s wedding, as his best (wo)man, and reunited with most of her lycée classmates on a note where she could properly apologise for her misgivings. She made friends – old and new alike.

She still watched out for Adrien like a little brother, even though it wasn’t possible for her to see him every day. She watched, and supported, as he took a more active stance in _Gabriel,_ from a business perspective, before beginning to pursue photography. She encouraged him when he was in two minds about university – he wanted to study Physics, but felt he was too old.

She watched as he kept trying to heal, attending therapy sessions, and weekly support group meetings. As he told Marinette about his past – the full extent of it. As he grew, and grew, and grew.

And eventually, she felt like she was as light as the air in a city on the outskirts of Paris, in which she had no responsibilities that left her crushed and exhausted. She felt free.

She felt happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, loves! Don't forget to leave kudos if you enjoyed, and a comment if you feel up to it. As always, sending a beacon of endless love and support your way <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [fight or flight.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29537715) by [AnxiousCupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiousCupcake/pseuds/AnxiousCupcake)




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